


A return to love

by Joanna_Lee, lejf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Castiel, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anal Fingering, Angst, Bottom Dean, Crossdressing, Dean in Panties, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feminization, Infidelity, Jealous Dean, Jealous Sam, M/M, Male Lactation, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Gender Swap, Objectification, Omega Dean, Omega Dean Winchester/Alpha Sam Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panty Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Self-Lubrication, Shameless Smut, Teen Angst, Top Sam, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanna_Lee/pseuds/Joanna_Lee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lejf/pseuds/lejf
Summary: The story of Sam, a young alpha who falls in love with—and starts lusting after—his male omega 'mother' Dean. Dean is torn between temptation and guilt: a soul-deep bond to his son and loyalty to Sam's father.Romance, shameless smut, drama, hurt & comfort, and some angst.





	1. Crossing over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SophiePam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiePam/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Family Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712990) by [Joanna_Lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanna_Lee/pseuds/Joanna_Lee). 



> If you're familiar with Joanna Lee's work Family Secrets, this story is only inspired by it but runs independently of it. 
> 
> 1) Here, Sammy is the alpha kid and Dean is the omega mom.
> 
> 2) The story starts with Sam at 14 and progresses into his adulthood. 
> 
> 3) Dean is 33 when this begins and Cas is 35.
> 
> 4) The story has porn, gratuitous smut, feels, and a love triangle so complex it will make your head spin.
> 
> (Dedicated to Sophie Pam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam crosses into a new territory--and with it comes a forbidden desire, uncertainty and a flurry of powerful emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole thing has been overhauled to give you a fresh, independent story, inspired by Family Secrets' premise. We genuinely hope you enjoy this rendition. Much love, Joanna and Lejf xx

Truth is, Sam hadn’t really understood what ‘omega’ and ‘alpha’ or ‘beta’ entailed until he was 14 years old and the teacher up the front of his class started talking about knots and heats and slick. 

He knew his father, Castiel, was an alpha, and that his mother, Dean, was an omega, but it had never meant anything before. It was just what they were. Like male or female. Tall or short. Nothing, really, though maybe one was worse than the other—he’d heard a few people before use omega as a condescending sneer, but when Sam had asked, his mommy just called them ‘morons’ and said not to put too much thought into it.

Following discussions with classmates and friends, his head was ringing with all these words like submissive, pillar of society, fragile petal, snowflake, coveted gem, protector, protected. At home, all these terms didn’t exist. By default, his father was the head of the house but it was never underscored in one particular way or another.

Sam needed to know more. Ever since he presented, perhaps even several months before that, he’s been feeling a shift, like new blood is being pumped into him and he’s seeing—and reacting—to the world differently. His senses are stronger and he can almost feel the surging hormones as they move around in his body. He feels raw and strange and like he’s harbouring an unbridled physical longing for something, or someone, that he has no idea what or who it is.

When he presented, and with all these new sensations rushing in, it almost felt like his alpha was _sentient_ , like it was something alien that had landed in his soul and whose presence he had to reconcile. In a first, he felt that omegas and betas were different ( _they must be_ , they even smell different, for starters), but he couldn’t put a finger on exactly how and why.

Sam burrowed away into the seniors’ section of the library, and, before he’d known it, held a book in his hands that he recited in his head while he watched his mom slouch around the house in sweatpants and loose shirts.

This is where he is now. He’s at the kitchen table with his school books (plus one) spread out in front of him. Dean is shovelling mostly-made pasta into his mouth where he stands barefoot at the stove, wedding ring catching the light.

_An omega’s core destiny is marriage_ , or something to that end, Sam recalls from one of the book he’s read. _It is in their nature; they know it as their right to be in ownership of an alpha’s steadfast love._

He wonders, vaguely, if that’s true. Something about the thought seems wrong to him. It might just be the floral language (though Sam’s English is immaculate, thank you very much, so that can’t be true).

_While an omega is undistinguished and unusable in society, like the handle of a blade, until joined to its mate; an alpha may be scathing on its lonesome. Beware of unmated alphas, for their edges are perilous for handling._

That seems incorrect, too. Sam tips his head as he watches his mother, who’s still cooking. Cheese pours into the pan like a landslide. Sam approves, even if he usually likes clean salad.

His mother isn’t ‘undistinguished’ and ‘unusable’. In fact, the very thought of Dean unmated sends a thrill through him, though he’s not sure why. For a moment he gets swept away by this thought, imagining himself as the alpha of the house, having snatched Dean first, with his mom his lawfully wedded omega, and heat pools in his groin. He shakes his head as if willing the thought away, and glances down at the words again.

‘Gracious, beautiful, soft’ leap out at him. Oh, Sam thinks, and he can’t help but steal glances at Dean again. His mom’s face is still youthful, soft, and pretty. His eyes are hazel green and warm, his lashes long, and lips full and pink like they’re bee-stung. Dean moves to open the window because the kitchen’s getting stuffy, and when he reaches up to flick the latch, stretching, all his muscles shifting under his shirt, he blots out the light. It seems to focus in on him like he’s a prism—spiralling into one stark point (the line of skin where Dean’s worn the fabric thin and there’s a hole under the arm) before fanning out like fish spreading from a spearpoint, undulating under the surface of the sea, scattering all across the floor tiles in a sun-gleamed spray of incandescence. All the breath escapes Sam’s lungs and his cheeks flame. Yes, that’s right. Omegas _are_ beautiful.

Oh, Sam thinks again, because suddenly his brain has been wiped blank, zeroing in on a hole in his mother’s shirt showing his nursing bra and swathes of skin from the swell of his breast. Sam can’t look away, even when Dean drops his arm back down and bustles back to the stove, because for the first time it’s alright to look.

Dean’s an omega—he’s here to be cherished and revered. The realisation sends a giddy rush through Sam. It’s almost as if, previously, he hasn’t been allowed to love his mom as much as he deserves because Dean is all about being gruff and untouchable.

He can scent his mom from across the room, and it makes his stomach tingle, makes him feel funny between his legs.

At that precise moment, the door opens down the hall and Castiel’s calling, “I’m home!” through the house with a smile in his voice. The hissing of the pan must have blocked off the sound of his car pulling up the drive.

“Yeah yeah,” Dean gripes, jokingly. Castiel drops his briefcase at the foot of the table and ruffles Sam’s hair before stepping up to his wife and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“You know, I thought I saw something beautiful when I walked in—”

Sam knows Dean’s probably rolling his eyes.

“—cheese,” Cas finishes, and then tries to reach for a piece of pasta. Sam hears Castiel’s hand get swatted.

“Wash your hands!” Dean barks, and Castiel reluctantly peels himself away with a look of pretend-hurt.

Sam might be fourteen, but he’s sharp enough to notice that his parents don’t act like the books and, now that he’s been looking for it, ads and general societal conventions say they do. He’d asked one of his friends—Jess—about it, too, and she’d only wondered why he was suddenly curious before confirming his suspicions.

Omegas aren’t supposed to be crass. They’re not supposed to bark at their alphas and talk back. It’s a poor influence on children and a home. All those proverbs about how a hundred alphas make a battalion but a single omega makes a home… they’re right, Sam realises. He can’t imagine feeling as comfortable and safe as he is now in a place without Dean in it.

But how can that be, if his mom isn’t acting like an omega should?

Sam sits and wonders, pen absently scribbling across his the page, still mulling it over when Castiel returns and loops an arm around Dean’s shoulder, kissing him on the cheek. Dean grumbles. Sam watches from the table. Claire, his sister, quietly snoozes in her baby chair.

It’s a small, hardly-noticeable gesture: a short series of actions that Sam has always seen but never processed. Castiel’s eyes drop to Dean’s lips, Dean draws back just the slightest, Cas leans in, Dean glances up, faces an instant’s spark of hesitation, then relaxes because it’s Cas and they’re in love and married and opens up to kiss him fully. Hands slide down to palm the curve of Dean’s ass as though in reward.

His mother doesn’t like displaying physical affection in view of anybody else. Inside or outside the house, children or strangers, Dean doesn’t like it. It’s a well-established rule, but one that bends under Castiel. See? There they are now, kissing right there at the stove. Dean’s hands are noticeably more still than Castiel’s, which are roaming up and down Dean’s body with the occasional grope thrown in. At this point Sam would usually announce, “Gross!” but this time he just feels kind of sick. His fingernails are biting into the palm of his free hand. 

Sam quietly considers the suspicion that his mom might be more omega-like than he appears, and then wonders on his own sudden unwellness. By the time his parents have parted and Castiel has left the kitchen to get changed out of his work clothes, and Dean’s spooning pasta into bowls while Sam’s books are all already stacked into a neat pile, he’s still feeling woozy. He can feel his appetite shrinking. He can’t touch the pasta.

“Mom,” he says, “I’m not hungry.”

“Really?”

“It’s too greasy.”

“I’ve clearly failed to raise you,” Dean deadpans.

Sam is still grimacing at the pasta. Dean notices that his son looks genuinely miserable, (and Dean’s hungry) so he takes pity. He says, eyes rolling, “Fine, turnip, hand it over.”

“... Did you just call me a turnip?”

“Hey, you are what you eat, ain’t ya?”

Sam shakes his head but takes the excuse for what it is, climbing the stairs two by two and huffing when he sees that his mom’s put up all his school, state, national and international awards on the wall again. So Sam’s skipped a few years. It’s not a big deal.

He holes up in the stillness of his bedroom and immediately sinks into the mattress of his bed. His room is a quiet place. Quiet, and organised—nearly unobtrusive. But his head is noisy. This is… he doesn’t know what this is.

Or maybe he does. It didn’t start with the book, nor with watching his mom.

It started with Dean’s hypnotic scent. It had caught Sam's attention and ensnared it. The scent started to permeate strongly right after his mom gave birth to Claire, two years earlier. Sam would sit beside his mother as Claire nursed from him and bask in the delicate warmth of it. Whiffs of pie, cinnamon, milk, this thing that he now recognises as pure omega, mixed with leather and cologne, both of which Dean loved to wear. Sammy would lean into the smell every time it tickled his senses. He'd put his head on mommy's right arm and watch Claire suckle on one of his round full breasts - lactating and deliciously engorged. Dean's soft belly pudge, marred by stretch marks, would be bare and Sammy’s eyes would follow the dark treasure trail that ran from Dean's navel down to his groin, his sweats sitting low on his hips, and revealing a glimpse of his mom’s plain white briefs. Sam remembers reaching out, one time, and touching around where Claire's lips were stretched. His touch lingered and he had secretly wished he could put a finger in Claire's mouth and feel the duct from where the milk is sucked out. He was drunk on the intimate proximity. It started then.

A sharp spike of heat pools in him, and that’s when he knows for certain. His emotions crumble all over the place. It’s his rut, again. Before 14, he used to have hard ons. It wasn’t uncommon. But after, it’s different; it’s like the sensations are multiplied tenfold and his nerve endings are on fire.

When he starts to get hard, he’s at once shocked and intoxicated, and he’s breathing hard and fast. He manages to throw open the window and push all his bedsheets onto the floor; then all bets are off, and he’s clawing at his shirt and pants to remove them. The cool air sends shivers through his body even though he’s burning up with the heat of his rut.

_Too early,_ he thinks. It’s happening too early.

His cock is hardening fast, his stomach is quivering with the pulsating shivers running through his body, and he kneels down on the mattress as it all overtakes him. This is probably his third or fourth rut since he presented, and he still can’t get used to the rush of it, the speed in which it hits and breaks him to little pieces.

People usually present around 18. His must be brought on by _something_. Sam’s mind is swimming with possibilities, trying to make sense of his own body, but it slips quickly out of his grasp when his cock slaps up against his stomach.

His erection is harder than it's even ever been, and his own touch is like fire on his skin. He moans as he strokes himself, and out of nowhere the thought hits him: he wants his mom to see him touch himself like this. He wants to look Dean in the eyes as he pulls on his shaft. He wants his mom to see him finger his weeping piss slit as he breathes hard and falls apart.

He wants his mom’s smell, right now, he thinks, and like a Pavlovian response, his dick trickles out more precome. That omega musk will be the death of him, Sam thinks as he continues to beat off. He’s craving it like a drug. And he knows like he knows that just a waft of it will bring him to the edge of climax, maybe even push him over it. He wishes he’d had the time to rummage inside the laundry and grab one of Dean’s unwashed underwear before his rut hit. He wants to smell the fabric where Dean’s dick would’ve been, press his nose to the spot that hid Dean’s most intimate, most private part.

Sam has seen Dean’s collection of underwear when he helped him fold laundry a few times. His mother has some threadbare pouch briefs, which Sam will admit made his breath hitch and his heart race a little when he had first seen them and imagined how the "pouch" would probably cradle Dean’s length, and how his prick would tent and stretch the thin material when he was aroused.

He wonders if his mom is wearing those briefs right now. He imagines how Dean’s soft genitals are sitting snugly in those briefs, how they probably jiggle some when he moves. Then he fantasies about his mom’s junk covered in silk or lace, his dick barely contained, his omega slick wetting the backside, and Sam's thick cock starts spurting—ropes of come shooting into the air and across his abs.

He bites his fist to stop himself from screaming and he pants like he’d just ran a marathon. When the edge is gone, he flops face forward into the mattress.

Moments later, he begins to come down from the high and regain his senses. Sam shifts slightly to his side so as not to squish the goods. His body slightly quivers, and his mind races to understand.

Masturbating to obscene fantasies of his mom? Sam knows he has just crossed a line, a threshold into the unknown. And yet, part of him feels it’s a natural born right to want his mom this way. _Dean is his_ , a voice from some far corners of his mind whispers.

But he’s too tired to piece together this puzzle right now. He’s too tired to retrace his steps and try to form a picture of his fall into madness. His hand is still on his spent dick, the soft pulls are slowly milking out the last of his juices, coaxing out faint dribbles of come and staining the mattress. He’ll need to wash off the traces of his perversion, Sam thinks, irrationally, as if when anybody sees it, they’ll _know_.

After some hazy attempts to make sense of it all, Sam sighs and files away his musings; decides that tomorrow, he will analyse and investigate. Today, he’ll surrender to sleep, and his eyes flutter shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoy this rendition and the changes Lejf and I made. We would love to hear from you! xx


	2. The Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes some interesting revelations about the nature of alphas and omegas, and his own mother.

Sam sits along the edges of class, fiddling with his pen while the omega teacher up front lectures them on giant covalent structures.

She is the only omega teacher in the entire school. Omegas usually aren’t offered teaching positions, but word has it that her alpha is quite the failure and so she’s been forced to work to keep their household afloat. Her chemistry knowledge isn’t actually all that bad. Sam wonders where she could’ve ever learnt, then decides it’s best not to wonder. He wants to respect his teacher because, well, she’s teaching him — but there’s no doubt that she could’ve learnt it all in a legitimate environment.

She’s the only other omega he knows, after all, and she looks nothing like Dean —his mother is gruff and anything but feminine compared to his teacher with her makeup on and delicate gestures, wrapped up in white linen.

The boy beside him, Brady, spreads his legs in his chair as she walks by, her modest snow dress fluttering around her knees. The young alpha adjusts himself in his pants very deliberately, locking eyes with her and wetting his lips. She almost, _almost_ walks by without looking.

Sam writes ‘C60’ in his exercise book a bit irritatedly.

Brady keeps it up the entire lesson through, openly leering, brushing his hand over the front of his jeans. No one else seems to care because they’re probably used to it, but considering Sam’s only presented months ago and recently starting to open his eyes to this sort of thing, it grates on his peripherals, constantly throbbing in reminder. Brady definitely notices Sam, though, because at one point when Sam is glancing over, the boy _winks_.

When the bell goes, Sam’s out of his chair in an instant, bag up and on his shoulder. “Why would you do that?” he asks, standing over Brady’s desk. “She’s our _teacher._ ”

_Why on earth would he want to seduce a teacher?_

And Brady goes, “Say, kid, how’d you get here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Through hard work and plain-ol’ brains, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers dubiously, not quite sure where Brady’s going with this.

“No one would’ve said you could do it, but you did.” Brady leans back, looking straight at Sam. He raises a finger and traces a circle. “I’m telling you, at the end of the day, red tape is just tape: it just needs a little snip. What people say is just what they say. What the body conveys ... that’s a whole different matter.”

“What’s your point exactly?” Sam asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Give up some hard work, charm, and plain-ol’ brains and you’ll get anything you want, that’s my point,” Brady says, then leans in to whisper the next words. “And what I want, Winchester, is a pretty, willing, omega whore.”

Sam stares for a moment longer. Other students are filtering out of the room around him, and it feels like they’re a current that’s threatening to carry him away in a mindset of just not caring what Brady’s saying. He’s not sure which is the bigger threat, though, the movement around him or the absolute stillness that Brady locks him with.

It’s Brady. It has to be. It hits Sam suddenly, and he sucks in a deep breath. God, what is Brady even doing? He’s just looking for any hole to fuck. He’s not at all like Sam. Sam would _love_ an omega. _Someone like his mom, and preferably, just as beautiful._ Sam would never just use one and toss it away. He wouldn’t chase after someone just because they were an omega.

Sam gives Brady an exasperated look and shakes his head. “You’re disgusting, Brady. You know that?”

“And you don’t know what you’re missing, snowflake.”

Sam turns on his heel and goes without another word, leaving his doubt behind, laid at the desk like a sleeping, simmering shadow.

***

Sam exists in a bit of a strange position at school. He’s skipped two years and it’s not like he’s bullied or anything — his classmates aren’t competing with him because they don’t care enough (it’d be shameful to compete with a 14-year-old, anyway) — but he’s certainly on the outside of most circles. It’s just not ‘cool’ to be hanging out with the little kid.

He’s respected for being clever, but nothing else, really. Although Jess spares him time of day, she has her own friends too. Sam can try to convince himself that she leaves just to stay afloat in the social ladder, but that’s not true. She genuinely has other friends.

It’s alright. Sam doesn’t mind. If he did, he would go back to his fourteen-year-old peers and try to fit in there, but at this point it’d take too much effort to overcome his prodigy status that he doesn’t. Instead he spends his days out studying, or swimming laps out in the school pool, slicing through the water as a single arrow-bolt.

The swimming is doing wonders to his body too; his shoulders are widening as he gains mass, and his arms are becoming visibly sculpted. Only a year ago, he used to look slouchy and loose, his lanky limbs always getting in the way and rendering his moves clumsy and awkward.

Gangly no more. With his previously beanpole body slowly bulking up, Sam knows (at least distantly) that he’ll eventually grow into an impressively brawny alpha.

Today Sam spends the rest of his day vacillating between his classes, the library, and Jess. He eats lunch in the cafeteria with Jess and her friends, sitting on the edge of the bench and chewing shyly — smiling in reply whenever someone addresses him so he doesn’t have to talk — until he’s done and leaves for the library. It’s not exam season, so the place is mostly empty.

He’s got a pass for the senior section under the pretense that he’s skipped several years, not just two.

Third shelf, seventh row down, the books begin the subcategory of omegas. Non-fiction. Usually Sam prefers words over images, but today he pauses when he opens a book he’d previously marked and it falls onto his lap as a double-page spread of ‘ _Man as omega’._ The man is long-limbed and impossibly soft-looking around the edges where the light melts against his skin.

It’s a double page spread because the omega’s dress trails a satin white line behind him.

Sam takes a breath, carefully, and traces his finger along the page as though he can feel the gentle dustiness and glass-woven delicacy of the scene through the paper.

‘Man as omega,’ a paragraph says in the corner, ‘is a rare event and commodity of the highest caliber, and should be recognised as such. Little is known of what results in a male omega, but their scents and fertility are known to far surpass their more common counterparts. Thus, treat them duly, female in all but genitalia and fertility.’

The omega himself has his eyes demurely lowered, hands laid across one another like the pale necks of cranes. His lashes have fanned against his cheeks and pink lips are curled into a private smile, and the dress swans around him in a pool of feathers. It reminds Sam of a lily in a lake. An angel.

Sam is struck by the sudden, unshakable knowledge that if the omega in this photo had been Dean, he’d be even more beautiful.

Sam thinks of Dean’s eyes, green and framed by terribly long lashes, his locks gold-spun and unkempt, lips, calamine-pink and pouting, and his complexion, peaches and cream.

Dean in a dress ... Sam’s never witnessed it before. His mom always worn grungy clothes. Shirts and jeans, nothing special.

Sam’ll need to ask him someday why not — surely it’s not that bad — and instead, he lets himself imagine for a moment Dean in _that_ dress. Dean would be caught mid-pose, his hand half-raised to reach for nothing, surprised by the camera, his lips parted and full and blushing red from biting.

Maybe the dress would have a slit down the side, too, so whenever he wanted, he would be able to slide a hand over the muscled curve of Dean’s thigh to follow the swell of his ass, his fingers shifting under the smooth silk and dipping into the slick heat of Dean. Dean would shy away from it at first, lowering his eyes, opening that hot wet mouth of his to hint at a reproachful ‘ _Sam!’,_ but then as Sam’s finger would graze his hole that protest would go unsaid, because Dean’s legs would part and he’d grip the tabletop, rocking back slightly each time Sam’s fingers passed over his hole in wordless submission. Perhaps he’ll try to get himself off, but Sam would slap his hand away, and in the end, Dean would come untouched, just from having his asshole prodded and penetrated with a finger.

Sam’s fully hard in his jeans at the imagery. He shuts the book tightly, squeezes his eyes shut, and takes deep breaths. Why is he thinking about _his mom_ like this?

His phone starts to buzz in his pocket as a perfect distraction to the tumult in his mind.

There’s a text from Jess asking him to come to the book club after school. Once upon a time Sam would’ve said yes without a thought, eager to take any sort of excuse to be near her because he had a massive crush on her. Now, though, that’s changed. He can’t _just_ have a nice, sweet relationship with Jess. There’d be talk, there’d be gossip, Jess would compromise her time with other people, and they’d have to adjust their friendship for something new that might end up breaking them apart.

But maybe, most importantly, he doesn’t find her quite as gorgeous and kind anymore.

He says no and immediately feels guilty, fiddling with the hem of his trousers and trying to avoid looking at the simple cover of the book in his lap. It’s tempting to open. He wants, for some deep, primal reason, to look at that omega in his flowing dress again. He chalks it up to the instincts everyone talks about.

With force, he tears his mind away, back to Jess. He guesses that when people grow older, it’s just a natural course of events that the potential for romantic feelings throws a wrench into the gears. Jess …

 _More like Dean_ , some part of his mind says.

He puts the book away. Does not look.

But thinks about it for the rest of the day, until school is over and he’s leaving with his bag slung over his shoulder and a need to clear his head. He finds his feet carrying him down the sidewalk, parting from the rest of the crowd of schoolchildren when someone shouts his name.

Brady’s waving at him and making some lewd gestures. Sam scowls and hitches his bag up higher and starts walking, faster. “Sam, Sam!” Brady shouts. “Guess who got the bitch?”

It’s a blustery day. The sky is a gargantuan smear dragging across the horizon, seeming to pick up speed as it comes closer. The clouds are splitting as bits outrun each other and tumble over their greyness; and the wind goes leaping across the rippling school-field, ducking and weaving under lamp-posts and uniforms and skirts that are billowing up like wings, corkscrewing through the flags outside the school where their halyards whip-slap against metal masts with echoing ringings. Within it all Brady is holding a banner of fabric and is waving, empowered by the momentum of everything around him, back and forth and back and forth in a line like a white calligraphy pen drawing in facsimile clouds. Sam hears the word _bitch_ swirling around in his head.

Brady must’ve fucked their teacher and then stolen part of her dress as a trophy.

Sam _sees_ , suddenly, like putting on glasses for the first time.

If Brady can do that … if that is the line of what Sam knows is wrong and right, and if Sam understands that _Brady stands on the other side,_ then Sam knows exactly where _he_ is.

He’s doing no wrong. He’s not like Brady.

Sam isn’t hurting anyone. Sam would never hurt Dean, never call him a bitch, nor parade him like a scrap for dogs to eat.

Sam shakes his head at him, then crosses the road through four lanes of traffic to leave Brady behind.

***

Sam doesn’t often do things on impulse. He likes to think things over first. That doesn’t explain why he’s holding a box with a brand new dress folded into it. It’s white, a little bit bridal, and Sam must’ve been insane to buy it. His father and Dean had trusted him with money, and this is how he uses it?

He feels kind of like he’s buying the dress to prove a point. As if, when Brady destroyed one white dress, Sam has had to go buying another to preserve its purity in his mind.

He tiptoes into the house, where, luckily, Dean is in the kitchen and only shouts a hello. Dean must hear something suspicious in Sam’s returning greeting, because he goes, “What’s wrong, Sammy?”, kitchenware clattering as he puts something down. Sam’s heart is in his throat when he scales the stairs to his room.

“Nothing,” Sam calls back, and rushes in through his doorway and shoves the box under his bed.

No one’s going to find it. It doesn’t mean anything.

Sam falls back on his bed, and just stares at the ceiling. His skin is sizzling hot and his breaths are racing. Stowed away or not, the fact that the dress is here, where Dean is, is bringing his mind back full circle to that picture he saw in the library earlier today.

He closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander to that conjured up, forbidden image of Dean - feminine, wet and wanton - and a trill of pleasure runs up Sam’s spine. His blood rushes south, making his head swim. In the library, he couldn’t indulge the fantasies, but here, in the privacy and silence of his room, nothing can stop him.

This time instead of a dress, he imagines his mother in lingerie ... an itsy-bitsy nightdress, short, delicate and see-through, the hem barely covering his crotch and grazing across his ass. Every dip and curve in Dean’s body exposed to Sam.

In Sam’s fantasy, the seduction is accidental. For instance, he’d feel restless one night and creep down the stairs to their living room, only to find Dean sitting in his sheer nightie watching TV late into the night. Sam is a visual creature so he’ll look first and take his fill.

Dean, in this imaginary scenario, would flip the channels, eyes fixed on the glowing screen, until he settles on a final destination: porn.

This is where the action starts in Sam’s head.

Outside of his head, he starts touching himself. Frustrated by the layers of clothes, however, and not wanting to end with a chafed penis, he quickly unzips and slides halfway out of his jeans and boxer briefs. He takes his length in his hand and start stroking, slowly, finding his rhythm.

In his mind’s eye, Dean is still in drag, sitting on their living room couch, watching pornography and pleasuring himself. His mother’s thighs would part, his hands worming their way under his own nightdress. One hand will lightly fondle his dick, and a calloused palm will cup the weight of a breast. As Dean’s dick chubs up, he’ll start writhing, stroking his length rapidly and simultaneously flicking his perky nips.

He’ll pull the nightgown down, exposing his hardened nipples. As he caresses and grabs and squeezes his pecs, white drops of pearl-colored milk would bead out and slither across his chest.

Sam, lying on his bed, starts stroking faster too, like he and _fantasy Dean_ are racing to finish together. In his head, Dean pants, and trembles, then starts calling Sam’s name softly through cherry sweet lips. At the (imaginary) sound of his name flirting with his mother’s lips, a thick squirt of cum oozes from Sam’s penis, and his pace picks up some more.

“Sam,” his mother would whisper, throwing his head back, and moaning with pleasure. His voice would get louder, “Sam, Sam.” Sam would want to attack that mouth, descend on it, kiss it ravenously. He’d want to bite his way down Dean’s exposed body as he calls his name. “Sam!—”

The door to Sam’s room is, apparently, flung open. The fog suddenly clears and Sam scandalously realises his mom, _real_ _flesh-and-blood mom_ , has just casually sauntered in through the door.

Dean’s eyes go wide, mouth goes slightly agape, when he sees what he walks in on, before he remembers to close his mouth and look away. He mutters, “awkward” in sing-song, but he doesn’t leave, just waits for Sam to get decent.

His mom can be shameless — and _not_ in a sexy way, especially now when Sam has been caught red handed, lying on his back with his wet-tipped cock jutting up into the air and pointing to the ceiling.

Heart in throat, Sam starts to fumble around frantically looking for something to hide under, or cover up with, until his brain shifts gears and belatedly realises he can just pull up his pants, which he does, with slightly trembling hands.

Sam then sits up and zips his jeans too, so fast and clumsily that he ends up bruising his engorged, hard penis, and whimpering like a girl when it gets caught in the zipper.

“Woah, easy tiger. You’ll hurt the equipment,” Dean says, wincing.

His mother’s voice sounds half-amused, and Sam suspects he might be muffling a giggle.

This is painful, on so many levels, Sam thinks, his sense of shame flaring up and coloring his face red, and his penis throbbing — an ugly reminder of what he was doing, _what he was imagining his mom doing_ , before he was brazenly walked in on. Sam buries his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his long hair, and his chest heaving. He just waits for the moment to pass, or for the earth to open up and swallow him. _Whichever comes first._

The silence is so thick, so Dean cuts into it, with a sheepish attempt at humor. “In my defense, I knocked, and called your name, like, three times. Knot-head!”

He takes a seat beside Sam on the bed. Sam starts gulping up the air like breathing is going out of fashion.

“Are you hurt, you know, down there? Wanna double check?” Dean asks, then, when Sam doesn’t grace this with any response, his mom takes Led Zeppelin’s advice and just rambles on. “It happens, you know. You’d be surprised how many people end up in the ER with zipper-related injuries. It can get _pretty_ nast—”

“Mom, stop, alright?” Sam says, whipping his head up so fast it takes a moment for his head to settle and the world to come into focus. “Enough, please. What did you come up here for?”

They’re sitting side by side, their thighs almost touching and Sam can’t stand it, so he shoots up from the bed, and sits himself on his desk chair instead, facing away from his mom, and arranging the scattered books and papers on the desk to keep his gaze and hands occupied.

“Wanted to check on you. You bolted, like a bullet, to your room. I thought maybe you had a bad day.”

 _Like you wouldn’t know_ , Sam thinks. _Bad, weird, eye-opening_ ; all in one.

“I’m fine.”

More silence. “You know, lube is usually your best friend. Trust me, you don’t want rug bur—”

“MOM!”

“What? You could use some pointers ... if you’re gonna hole up here and play with yourself, you gotta at least do it right. So let’s try this again. Before you ever touch—”

“YOU are unbelievable, you know that?”

“It’s been said,” Dean says. “Alright, sasquatch, I’ll leave you to overthink and wallow in embarrassment — totally unnecessary by the way — and go whip up dinner. Any special requests?”

“How about leave me alone?”

“One leave alone coming up,” Dean says, pushing up from the bed. “With sauce or without?”

“Hilarious,” says Sam, deadpanning. He still has his back to his mom.

“Sammy, come on, so you were spanking the monkey, what’s the big deal—wait, what’s that under your bed?”

Sam is confused at first, then realisation dawns. He tosses over his shoulder, his neck straining, and there, the box with the dress is gloriously poking out from under his bed, and Dean is bending over to inspect it.

“Mom, wait, that’s private.”

But Dean doesn’t seem to understand the concept of privacy, so he fishes out the box nonetheless. Sam dives forward to grab it before Dean pokes inside, but Dean stubbornly snatches it away and keeps it out of reach. “Give it back, mom,” Sam huffs.

“Not until you tell me what’s inside.”

“Not happening,” Sam says, crowding his mother who’s standing right on the edge of his bed.

They start grappling like children.

“Get off,” Dean says.

“No! Come on, give it back.”

In their struggle, they end up falling, landing on top of each other on the bed with a thud, and to Sam’s horror, the lid on the box slips and it flips open. The dress falls out.

They both freeze and stare at the piece of fabric for a second. Dean moves first, throwing his son halfway off and reaching for the dress. “What the—Sam, I didn’t peg you for a crossdresser,” says Dean, eying the number amusedly.

“Em, it’s not for me,” Sam says carefully, going for the truth instead of skirting around it. You know, _better rip off the bandaid._

“Girlfriend?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow.

That’s an easy out. Sam could take it; just say he hooked up and it’s a gift to his sweetheart, but he doesn’t want to. He’s dead curious about Dean’s reaction. It can’t be too bad, because at the end of the day, Sam is still Dean’s son.

“No, mom, it’s for … _you_.”

All humor gets washed off Dean’s face and his features shift, his eyes darkening.

“You’re joking?” Dean says, sitting up, pushing Sam all the way off and squaring his shoulders.

“I’m not, actually,” Sam says, standing up, and facing his mom.

“What makes you think I’d ever wear something like this?”

“You—erm, you didn’t even get a chance to look at it.”

“It’s a fucking dress, period. I don’t have to study the damn thing.”

Sam flinches at how harsh his mom’s tone suddenly has become and at the profanities, which Dean usually reigns in. The mood? It’s a complete 180.

Dean seems to notice how his words land. He gulps and his eyes dart down to floor. “I’m sorry. Look, can you please return it? I don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Wear those,” Dean says, pointing. He’s avoiding so much as calling it by its name, as if saying the word “dress” a few times will somehow soil him.

“Why not?”

“It’s—look, you won’t get it.”

“Mom, talk to me, please. Look, I’ll return it if that’s what you want,” Sam says, although he really, _really_ doesn’t want to. He’s dying to see Dean wear it actually. “But I need to understand.”

“There’s _nothing_ to understand—”

“Why are you shutting me out?”

“Why are you pushing?”

“Why don’t you just try it on, mom?”

“Hell no! What’s the upside? Why is this even important?”

“Because,” Sam says, hesitating. “Because … other omegas do it. You don’t and I wanna know how come!”

At the mention of the word _omega_ , Dean’s jaw clenches, his fists curl and any remaining warmth evaporates from his eyes. He’s looking at Sam like he can not bear to see him at all.

Sam knows he has crossed some invisible line.

The alpha in him hates the display of anger, wants to lash out and force Dean to just sit and listen. His rational mind just wants to understand what rattled his mom, so he pushes. “I mean, you _are_ an omega, mom.”

Suddenly, his mother rushes forward, right into his space, and grabs his arm and shoves him back. It’s pretty painful, Dean’s fingers sinking into his skin, eyes boring into his, his gaze steady and their noses almost touching. His voice is low and dangerous when he says, “Don’t call me that.”

Sam gazes back, eyes flickering, trying to read his mom, at once confused and feeling challenged. Dean is an omega. That’s a fact. Sam calls him _mom,_ for God’s sake. He’s a wife, he’s married to an alpha and has not one but two children so _why_ is he suddenly denying a fact that he lives with? It bewilders Sam because Dean has always been more than happy to be his mother, and also because Dean never lashes out at Sam, particularly without explanation. He can sense the heat radiating through Dean’s skin and seeping into the fingers currently wedged painfully into the flesh of his own arm. “Don’t ever,” Dean repeats.

“I will, mom ... if you don’t talk to me,” Sam says, and it really did sound less rude in his head. But it’s a last ditch effort to get his mom to explain. Something’s broken here, and Sam needs answers.

“Do it and watch me kick your ass to the curb,” Dean retorts, all-venom, his glare impossibly cold and piercing and it’s like he’s a different man. Sam has never seen his mother’s eyes this dead and still before, not when he’s looking at him. There’s usually nothing but love. Even if Dean is rough around the edges, his eyes are usually tender and adoring.

Sam’s eyes, despite himself, start welling up with tears.

This seems to do the trick.

Because, like a man snapping out of a waking nightmare, Dean’s gaze drifts, his face softens, regaining some of its earlier composure and its lost warmth, his fingers uncurl and release their vice-like grip on his son’s arm. As he orients himself to the world again, he backs away from Sam.

Dean suddenly looks like a man torn apart. His eyes flicker to Sam’s upper arm, to where he was holding him, and he winces at how the skin is red and slightly bruised. Sam himself looks a little pale, and it’s his fault, Dean thinks.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said—”

“Just get out, please,” Sam whispers, and it’s his turn to frost over because he’s suddenly infuriated by the unreasonableness of his mother. He’d bought Dean a gift, and Dean had grabbed him and threatened him over it, provided no explanation, and is suddenly turning on his toe and trying to sweep the whole incident under the rug by reverting back to his ‘doting mother’ state.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers back, pleading.

“It’s Sam,” he says, not meeting his eyes. If he looks into Dean’s eyes he’ll either cave or have another outburst.

Dean’s hands come up to card his fingers through his short hair, grabbing two fistfuls, like he wants to pull his hair out. Then his hands falls back down and he nods. “Look, I’d explain my issues with this, the whole, erm, dressing like a woman thing. But I don’t wanna drag anybody through the muck with me. I realise I’m not exactly normal.”

Sam stays silent.

“So now _you_ ’re boarded up?”

Sam continues to stare past Dean.

“Yeah. Alright,” Dean says, gulping audibly. “I guess I better come back later then.”

“Don’t bother,” Sam finally says. “And no dinner for me. So don’t worry about that either.” He locks his eyes to his mom’s in an effort to communicate how dead serious he is.

“Sam, don’t do this,” Dean implores, a little choked up.

Sam just tilts his head a fraction, and stares back.

“Look, if you don’t wanna share a meal, it’s fine. I’ll make dinner, and—and maybe leave the house for a bit, take a walk around the neighborhood while you eat,” Dean says, in a small voice. “You won’t see me. Is that better? Will you eat dinner now?”

Sam doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head, flips around and sits himself at his desk, giving his back to his mom.

Dean waits for a minute, standing in the middle of the room, then, feeling rejected, his shoulders sag and he pads out, closing the door behind him.

The first line Sam’s pen draws rips a hole in the paper. How had it gone so wrong? His head is all tangled up with fury and frustration towards the irrationality of Dean ... and of himself, a little. Why had he gone and bought the dress? Why did Dean just _have_ to see it? But most of all, why wouldn’t Dean explain himself? Sam hadn’t had the faintest idea that the dress would draw such a violent reaction from Dean, so why did Dean have to get so up in arms at an innocent gesture?

He also can’t believe Dean goes demanding not to be called an omega and then immediately becomes plaintive, falling back into his attitude of a mother by talking about cooking, forgiveness, going out of his way by leaving the house to give Sam space.

It’s laden with hypocrisy.

Sam’s insulted by it, as well as the breaking of that unspoken promise between mother and son that a mother will always be supportive and understanding of what he does, or gently corrective, while a father will be the disciplinary figure.

Eventually the anger all trickles away into nonsensical scribbles of ink and he’s left feeling defeated by the rift that he’s opened up between him and his mom. He doesn’t want it to be like this. He hadn’t meant it.

For a moment, Sam almost detests that dress just as much as Dean does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one. Updates should be more regular from here on! 
> 
> Lejf and I would love to hear your thoughts! xx
> 
> Love,  
> Jo

**Author's Note:**

> This story breaks off from the inspiration-fic Family Secrets early on. Only the baseline remains the same. 
> 
> My girl @Lejf is now co-authoring this with me, and because writing a whole new fic nearly from scratch is very time intensive, Sophie had to pull out. She's still rooting for us from the sidelines.
> 
> I'm definitely still writing Family Secrets (my baby # 1). Thank you so much for investing in this and for taking the time to leave your thoughts and musings. 
> 
> Love,  
> Joanna xx
> 
>  -----------------------
> 
> Hey, all. I'm aware that there's a difficulty in omega Dean & omega Sam fans co-existing when preferences run strong and you're allowed to let fly over the internet. But we'd like to ask you to keep comments civil re:omega Sam, considering some people _are_ just giving this a shot regardless of their overruling preference to omega Sam, as per the original. We'd appreciate it if you tried not to alienate each other. 
> 
> Those of you who step in (especially as anons) with only insults to make, _especially_ to another commenter, **will be deleted**.
> 
> You can have preferences. Of course you can "prefer omega Dean" or "prefer omega Sam". But flagrant disrespect with clear intent to demean will be deleted right off the bat.  
> Best, Lejf.


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